float as the night forms a path of its own

Sawyer had seen his fair share of snow over the years. Although Southern by birth, his work had taken him in any number of directions, traveling north, east, west, as far as it took him to enter a new place without drawing too much attention to himself or leaving threat of recognition. Being a jack of all trades made it far easier to lie his way around; being able to pull out a set of tire chains made it believable that a man with an accent as strong as his had lived up north for a while. Having a full tank of antifreeze could convince others that the Florida license plate on his car really was just left there out of laziness.

But it was one thing to deal with snow in the passing night, and another entirely to remain in a city, without work, while snow piled all around him for a whole month.

That day, Sawyer felt absolutely no desire to cope with the foul weather outside, having picked up any number of cured meats and freshly baked bread on the way to the Compound, then parking himself right next to the bookshelf with a beer in hand. Splayed open on his lap was a copy of "Waiting for Godot," his third attempt to grasp it of the day, and Sawyer found himself just about ready to give up on the script.

"Some things ain't meant to be seen anywhere but the stage," he concluded, craning his neck back to shove it back on the shelf, looking for better options.